


The Lost Boys

by sick_boy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Asperger's Syndrome, Autism, Autistic Character, Corporal Punishment, Echolalia, Elementary School, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag: Ouef, Flashbacks, Gen, Headbanging, Hurt/Comfort, Learning Disabilities, Medicinal Drug Use, Paddling, Poor Will, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Sedation, Self Harm, Stimming, Will's childhood, of a child (Will)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:26:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sick_boy/pseuds/sick_boy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A re-write of therapy session in Oeuf.  Will is very distressed about the case involving children, and Hannibal intends to get to the bottom of it.</p><p>Tw: contains self harm in the form of head-banging</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this a while ago, never finished it, and then for various reasons was too embarrassed to post but i think the writing here is better than what i'm writing nowadays. Now i have finished it, and it doesn't do any good just sitting in my hard drive.
> 
> i'm not autistic nor do i have any learning disabilities, and i apologize if i misinterpreted them. My brother had Asperger's, but he didn't exhibit many of the behaviours one usually correlates with autism. If there is anything that doesn't feel or sound right in regards to this, please let me know.

“Good evening Will, please come in,” the doctor greets his last patient of the day. Will hurries past him, and Hannibal’s chest twinges at the rudeness. The flustered patient drops his beige messenger bag carelessly on the stereotypical psychiatrist chaise lounge, and rips off his jacket. Hannibal smells the tanginess of anger accompanying his extra salty sweat. He has a low grade fever.

“Has Christmas come early or late?” Hannibal gestures to the surprisingly well-wrapped present peeking out of his patient’s bag.

Will, already absorbed in his thoughts, looks momentarily confused. Christmas? Presents. He is pointing to the present in his bag. “It was for Abigail.”

“Was?” Hannibal prods.

Will is visibly agitated, passing by the chair placed specifically for him entirely, making his way to the desk. “I thought better of it. I wasn’t thinking straight, I was... I was upset when I bought it.”

His hands flare out, and rubs his face, his distress signal.

“Maybe still am,” he self-deprecatingly mocks himself in his winding tone and shakes his hands flat, parallel to ground.

Hannibal keeps tone neutral. “What is it?”

Will picks up an object on Hannibal’s desk, toying with it without really looking at it. It looks to be a chisel of some sort. He thinks about carving out the desk with it, writing some lewd graffiti, or driving it deep into his thigh-

“Magnifying glass, fly tying gear,” his answer is purely factual, meant to devoid himself of any telling emotion.

Hannibal sits, enjoying the show before him. Will’s emotional struggle is fascinating, his mind an exquisite dish of abnormal psychology. He presses on, nearing the source of tension. “Teaching her how to fish... her father taught her how to hunt.”

Will sighs. “That’s why I thought better of it.”

A moment passes, and then he goes in for the kill. “Feeling paternal, Will?”

Will spins around, defensive, brows low. If he didn’t have a history with and respect for the man before him, he would have spat the words.

“Aren’t you?” As long as Hannibal is, it is okay for Will to be. A man removed from society must judge his actions in terms of another, a respected figure.

“Yes,” Hannibal inclines his head, making eye contact.

Will nods in silent agreement, simmering under the surface. He realizes the space between them has closed and starts looking around room to disengage.

Hannibal continues on, measures how far he will take this before confronting Will directly. “Our good friend Doctor Bloom has advised against taking too personal an interest in Abigail’s welfare.”

Will is using all his restraint now, measuring his steps to keep his usual, unaffected pace. He cannot look at the other man in the room, so he concentrates on rubbing up and down his triceps. Anything to stop the slight shakiness that has taken hold of his upper body.

The psychiatrist remains impassive.  His raised brow is almost unnoticeable, not that Will is looking. This is an extremely sensitive issue for his patient, one deeply rooted in his past; he must proceed with extreme caution, something the renowned psychiatrist does by nature. Will counters this with an inclination for diversion in all meanings of the word. For this, Hannibal chooses the tone of his voice like he is browsing his wine cellar, a decade old Pouilly-Fume to compliment the autumn palate of tonight’s entree. He selects a slightly higher, warmer pitch, that of gentle compassion tinted with concern. His voice is quiet to distance himself from the booming Jack Crawford- he must never raise his voice to Will, for he has long learned to shut down at an intuitively measured decibel level.

"Tell me, why you are so angry?"

Hannibal always had the answers. He knew the answer, Will knew the answer, and yet vocalization was actualization. Lazy psychiatry, Will termed it. He scoffed, throwing a hand out into the air. He had no time for tricks when every minute those boys grew more comfortable with the idea of killing their family.

"I'm angry about those boys. I’m angry because I know that when I find them- I can't, I can’t help them.  I can't give them back what they just gave away!"

“Family,” Hannibal answered. One word, simple. And absolutely right.

Will’s nerves are raw and his shoulders convulse with energy.  God, is he boiling.   _Family family family family..._ The mantra wants to come to life on his lips, but he stops himself. He doesn’t do that in front of anyone anymore, God forbid a psychiatrist at thirty-nine years old. He leads himself towards a corner, anything to get away from _this._ It feels like when he wakes up from night terrors, layers of dried sweat coating him, the latest dripping down his feverish skin, his night shirt clinging to him. It feels so _unclean._

Will rubs his chin, bristles scratching his hand. “Yeah,” he breathes, trying to de-escalate himself.

But therapy isn’t about de-escalation, not with Hannibal Lecter. Subtle but powerfully striking observations served with suggestive implications. His sentences are archaeological digs one must thoroughly examine. First is the digging through the mass of land, knowing that somewhere hidden in the middle lay prized, unique valuables. Then, one must collect the shards of the ancient artifact, and after they are polished, they are reconstructed it into their one cohesive, intended form.

"They gave away what you so desperately longed for-"

"This isn't about me-” Will’s insistent shaking of his head jostles the curls on his forehead. He’s trying to convince himself as much as the decided psychiatrist before him.

“I believe we both know it is,” Hannibal interjects, in the same laid-back posture as when they started. His composure irritates the franticly-pacing patient.

Will bypasses the personal with the factual. “We- we call them the Lost Boys.”

It’s a confession, and the guilt swirls in his chest. He’s huddled in the corner now, facing the pillars of the unnecessarily bourgeoise office, cowering from the truth. _Our missing kid’s a boy, a paradox in the midst of a normal family... Ritalin, Focalin, any medication containing methylphenodate can affect appetite and slow long term growth in children._

Then was the quiet, unassuming voice of clarity. “Have you ever succeeded in finding yourself, Will?”

Then suddenly, Will isn’t in a swanky office in Baltimore.


	2. Chapter 2

Then suddenly, Will isn’t in a swanky office in Baltimore.

He is six years old in a Biloxi trailer park and his friend Jimmy lived two trailers over. Sometimes at night he could hear his agonized screams as a belt whistled through the air, and on those nights, Will could feel the burn on _his_ skin, feel the screams curl in _his_ throat, scared and ashamed and, most of all, sad. It’s when he can imagine the belt in his hand that his screams become his own again. Will never tackles him or plays rough. He mimics his friend’s stiff, pained posture without realizing it, only for Jimmy to ask him why he’s standing so weird. He doesn’t ask Jimmy why he stands while Will sits to pet the old lady’s dog- _kindness to animals doesn’t suggest that particular type of sophistication_ -

Nine years old and his teacher sends a note home with Will. He doesn’t socialize with the other children, avoids eye contact, is inattentive in class, makes careless mistakes on simple homework assignments. He’s just tired of learning the same damn thing in the last three schools he’s been to. But the note was sent home because she caught him hitting his head against the wall of the janitor’s closet. She suggested Ritalin and therapy, neither of which his boat motor fixer of a father could afford even if he wanted his son in that crap. His boy was just a little different, that’s all. Nothing he wouldn’t grow out of, or at least learn to hide.

Twelve years old and he sits with the kids everyone calls “stupid” and “retards.” He’s just glad they don’t try to talk to him. Soon he is by association both stupid and a retard, and after the bullies are gone, he can envision why they so enjoyed pushing him into lockers or punching him in the stomach. He takes his reduced price lunch into the bathroom and eats with his legs crisscrossed on the seat so no one knows he’s there. Some days he eats lunch so fast, it comes back up. He learns to avoid the meal altogether. It saves money, anyway. Maybe soon he could get some jeans that cover his ankles.

Fifteen years old, whiskers lengthening on his upper lip, always black grease under his fingernails bitten to the quick. He hears other mechanics in the boatyard mutter “queer” under their breath and he’s not sure whether they want him to hear or not, just hopes that his father can find work somewhere else, and soon. He still beats his head into the wall, but he’s learned to do it in private. Notes haven’t come home for years. His father gave him his head of chocolate, curly hair, but he also passed down the ever-present, overcasting sadness in his smile. Samuel Graham shakes his head, wearing that trademark smile washed in years of heartache and thinks, _That’s my boy._

Thirty-nine years old, standing in his psychiatrist’s office and his mind goes blank as the left edge of his frontal bone connects with the column upholding the second floor of the library. The impact resounds in his head through skin, bone, blood, and the aftershock absorbs into his brain until the whole left side of his head pulses. It starts with a sharp pain like fireworks, then fades to a dull thrum. Will doesn’t notice the small sigh of relief he emits from his nose. 

The flashes stopped. 

Blankness. 

And suddenly, the rhythm picks up right where he left off not too many years ago. Each hit is a pubescent boy. Jesse Turner. Conner Frist. CJ Lincoln. Chris O’Halleran. Milk carton material.

Will hears his own name growing louder, but it’s so far away, beyond a cloudy veil of throbbing pain. He imagines his own school portrait in black and white, his name, height, age, a time he went missing. _Have you ever succeeded in finding yourself-_

The seventh blow was lessened by a strong presence restraining him, his arms crossed into an ‘x’ binding his torso. Later on Will would ponder the efficiency of that move, how many other times Hannibal must have employed it, and on whom. (Violent men, he assumed. It made the hairs stand up on his neck.)

“Get off, get off of me! Get _off_!” He feebly demanded, and a sob wavered his voice. Will struggled against the psychiatrist’s solid figure, twisting his body back and forth, but Hannibal’s grip was vice-like. 

“I cannot allow you to hurt yourself, Will,” Hannibal reasoned. The sentiment only angered Will further, how calm and in control he sounded. How matter of fact. No surprise, shock, fear, or even anger at Will’s outburst. It seems Hannibal would always be the stoic rock of stability in Will’s life. He knows he means well but the anger is radiating out of him. He is no child. He is free to do what he wants to his body.

Maybe it was the possible damage to his pillar, then. God knows he’s wanted to deface this office since the first time he was sent here. It didn’t have the usual therapist stink of order and neutrality; it was too high-class for such things. It was where the rich could confess their darkest secrets while surrounding themselves with materialistic comforts. If the curtains complimented the walls, if the sculptures were Greek and matched the Tuscan columns that upheld the extended library, then maybe, just maybe they could maintain control of their preposterous impulses.

It was all about control, and Will had lost it. Unable to get out of the man’s grasp, the defiant twists of his body were soon consumed by waves of sobs wracking the unstable man, and he let his legs give out. His weight suddenly shifted to Hannibal, and the psychiatrist eased them both down to the hardwood floor, still holding Will by his crossed arms. But Will tugged on his grasp, not to get away this time, but to bury his sobs in his hands, to hide his face in shame, to mask the pain even when it was spilling out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! There is one more large flashback of Will's childhood, which will be up Wednesday.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor, poor Will.

He was nine years old again, couldn’t stop the tears running down his cheeks as he ran down the school halls past cork boards of drawings and rhyming poems before he hid in a closet he’s never seen anyone open. _Stupid stupid stupid._

His stomach was growling angrily because they had ran out of cereal that morning, only Will couldn’t tell his dad because he left for the boatyard at dawn, and Will was a big boy who could fix his own breakfast.

Now, his stomach was making loud, embarrassing noises that Samantha, his table buddy, giggled at. He was even madder because he _knew_ that 8 x 3 = 24 but sometimes the numbers swirled together and he wasn’t a baby- he didn’t need to count on his fingers.

His teacher had called on him, and Will’s legs flapped back and forth under the circular table he shared with three of his peers. Each time he kicked the table leg, the blue box of crayons in the middle would shuffle around.

Mrs. Bregman was a large woman whose stomach and thighs produced odd angles from her bi-weekly schedule of flower-patterned dresses. Her shrill voice cut through his thoughts, his hands rubbing at his brown corduroy pants and the hole at the knee, thoughts racing with the rhythm of his kicking.

“Will, what have I told you about kicking? I bet Tommy, Samantha, and Paul don’t enjoy sharing the table with someone who can’t sit still. Now, what is eight times three?”

Will stopped his kicking, but continued rubbing the tops of his thighs, wishing the answer was scrawled into the edge of the table like several other things were. Stars etched into the plastic. _I was hereeeee. Ashley sucks!_

“Up here, Will. You make eye contact when someone is talking to you. Look at the equation and tell us what it is. We’ve been studying our times tables for weeks.”

The boy’s eyes scrunched at the board- everything was hazy. The nurses at the last two schools said he needed glasses but he knew that would cost money and if he could just sit closer, he might be able to see clearly. But that would require him talking, and he didn’t like talking. Especially to the whole class.

“I- uhh,” he stammered.

Mrs. Bregman gave him a disapproving shake of her head, jostling the extra flesh adjoining her chin and neck. She pursed her ridiculously painted lips together. Will always thought it looked like someone in the class took the “fire engine red” crayon from the box and put on her lipstick every morning. Why did old ladies even paint their faces? Will never knew his mom, but he bet she didn’t wear that stuff.

The teacher turned to the class. “Anyone? Eight times three!” She exclaimed.

The boy was glad the pressure was now off him. Good, he thought, he could get out of here.

“Will,” she stopped him as he rose from his chair. He hated the way she said his name. It was always in the way that he knew he had done something wrong. “You need to ask before you go to the bathroom. We’re in the middle of math, can’t you wait?”

“No,” he said, continuing towards the door.

“You need to _ask_ before you go-”

“I don’t care!” He shouted, and he ran the rest of the way out and didn’t look back. His eyes burned and he didn’t need another reason for the gang of boys at lunch to call him a sissy. The first thing he saw opening his eyes was an unmarked door, and he pulled it open and shut it as quickly as he could. In the darkness was the cart the janitors pushed down the halls after school (he had seen his dad push a cart like that in other schools he went to.) It had a big grey scuffed trash can and a yellow plastic well where the mop went. It made the whole closet smell funny, but Will was used to all kinds of gross smells, the shed of a bathroom he shared with his neighbors, the sheet on his bed that never saw the light of day let alone a laundromat, his dad’s greasy tools and sour gloves. The closet wasn’t much bigger than the girth of the cart, but Will’s scrawny body hugged the wall until he sank against the corner, knees to his chest. _Stupid stupid stupid stupid._

He knew he had just gotten himself into more trouble but Mrs. Bregman picked on him so much more than the other kids. But that wouldn’t matter to the principal. When his dad and him were North and he got in trouble, he had to sit silently in a room after school for half an hour. But in the South, they sent you to the principal’s office and gave you licks with a paddle on the seat of your pants. The worst you could get was ten, but Will usually got three or five. He hated it, the whistle of the air through the holes, his fingers gripping the edge of the desk, his burning behind afterwards and the ache that rubbing wouldn’t fix. 

Those nights when his dad sat down for dinner, Will would stay standing, and he would know. His father would sigh, his mustache would twitch, but he wouldn’t scold him further, or even stand behind the teachers necessarily. “Whudja do this time, boy?” He would ask, almost joking.

He knew what was coming, and yet he could do nothing to stop it. It was all his fault. Why couldn’t he just answer the question like other kids? It was because of his stupid head. Will knew there was something wrong with it, but he couldn’t let anyone find out. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid,_ and suddenly Will realized his head was tapping the cement wall behind him to every insult he threw at himself. And it felt good.

So he continued. Maybe if he showed his head he hated the way it was different, the ways it was _wrong_ , it would change. _Stupid stupid stupid stupid stop crying stupid_ , and then the door opened and Will was still beating his head and Mrs. Bregman gasped and snatched at his arm from the doorway, her heavy frame leaning on the garbage pail, and she marched him to the principal’s office, and the bruises on his head hurt worse than the sting of his butt and _he had won._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending will be up Friday. Please tell me your thoughts so far!


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal shifted to Will’s side so he could directly block him from self harm if need be. After calling his name a few times and receiving no response, he had forcibly taken Will‘s hands away from his face and righted his slanted posture. Direct social contact was crucial in this stage of Will’s breakdown. For so long, he had been denying his feelings, repressing his pain. Until this case, Hannibal had merely speculated upon Will’s past, but his patient’s coping mechanisms told of a much darker childhood than he had ever imagined.

Once Hannibal clasped his patient’s hands in his, Will’s nervous eyes didn’t dart away. Instead, they were glazed, boring through dimensions, beyond decades. Will was having a flashback. His breath was a looping series of gasps. Tears slid silently down his cheeks. It was after a number of minutes and several unanswered questions that Will came back to himself, burying his face as if nothing ever happened, keening sobs dying in his hands once again.

“You need to let it out, Will,” Hannibal coaxed.

Will shook his head, a “no” lost to his hands and closing throat. Will was scrambling to rebuild his forts, slathering concrete upon bricks while his knees sturdied against rushing flood water, his frame threatening to be swept indefinitely into madness. Hannibal needed to hold his hands, stop his fort building and stand with him in the flood until he opened up, let him in. Only then would the water flow out of him in a rush of relief, only then would his nightmares subside. The tears he shed would mean nothing if the issue behind them was not laid to rest. For now, however, Hannibal’s shouts were lost to the wind, the apocalyptic storm of Will Graham’s madness.

“It is perfectly natural to feel lost as a transient child, for those in different family models to distance themselves from the concept. Abigail’s lost too,” the doctor lets the subject hang in the air, because, oh, Will knows. It is what consumes his nightmares and leeches energy from him by day. “Perhaps it’s our responsibility, yours and mine, to help her find her way.

“In the meantime, it is my responsibility both as your psychiatrist and friend to help you release the pain you’ve harbored for so long.”

The distressed man, the lost boy, did not respond. Hannibal let him grieve in silence for a few minutes until only little shakes of his shoulders and minute, hitching gasps remained.

“Will.” He knows Will will not, _cannot_ make eye contact right now, and uses his name as a grounding tool.

His hands stop cupping his face and move to rubbing his thighs. His torso rocks with his hands, his eyes closed, and Hannibal realizes that Will Graham is stimming.

“Will, you need to tell me what you’re feeling right now.”

He opens his eyes, and they dart to the opposite side of the room, still rocking back and forth. “What I’m feeling, what I’m feeling, what- I’m... I- I can’t-”

“What makes this case so different from the others?”

“They’re gonna ki-, Abigai-...” He’s breathless, his senses are overwhelmed by guilt and-

Then he’s diving for the desk, any hard surface to slam his head against. He manages to connect with the wood, and hard, before Hannibal is there to drag him back, hugging his arms to his sides.

“Will! Will, you need to calm down,” Hannibal ordered, but Will was pushing him away, lunging forward toward the desk with all his might, desperate for release.

“Will...” Hannibal’s attempts were lost on his hysterical patient. He shifted him and Will so his back leaned against the rungs of his desk drawers. With one arm firmly around Will’s torso, he hurriedly fished inside the drawer, his hand enclosing around a syringe.

“Will, I’m going to give you something to help you relax,” he tore the needle cap off with this teeth and efficiently plunged the small dose of lorazepam into Will’s tense arm.

His patient flinched at the needle’s intrusion but otherwise failed to recognize reality. Sobs wracked his shoulders until their frequency elongated into quiet moaning, his incessant lunges weakening as he grew lax in Hannibal’s arms. The dose wouldn’t be enough to knock him out, only to zap him of the ability to keep his forts up. Hannibal had witnessed many a patient transform in minutes from violent and aggressive to weeping, pathetic masses. Will, of course, was nothing near pathetic, but he was nonetheless affected by the lorazepam.

Once Hannibal was sure he was too drained to fight, he loosened his embrace and propped the slightly strung out man against the desk. Hannibal kneeled in front of him, watching Will’s chest rise and fall in long gusts, his eyes unfocused and moving around the room without purpose. Even such a small dose impacted the man’s thin frame.

“Will,” Hannibal tried to focus his attention. The patient’s head inclined towards Hannibal but he continued to look around his splayed out legs.

“Tell me what has gotten you so upset,” Hannibal coaxed. He knew Will could easily shut down with the drug in his system, give in to the heaviness of his limbs and wandering mind. Patience and gentle nudges were key.

“Whad’s... whud you do t’me,” he slurred, getting used to his slack-jawed speech.

“I gave you a mild sedative to reduce your agitation,” Hannibal explained. “Please, Will, I need to know as your psychiatrist what’s causing you to feel this way.”

A weak sob emitted from his throat as tears leaked from his eyes. He tapped the back of his head to the desk.

“Hey,” Hannibal reprimanded, “None of that.”

He waited for Will to form his feelings into coherent sentences.

“Those boys’ lives r’ruined,” he sniffed the snot back into his plugged nose. “When they realize what they did.”

Hannibal grabbed tissues from his desk and set them into Will’s curled fingers. “With the proper therapy, they will accept that their actions were not in their control-”

“And with proper intelligence, they’ll know thasss’ full uh shit.” The snot leaked down his lip and threatened to enter his mouth, but Will seemed unaware of this.

“You said it yourself, capture bonding is a powerful survival mechanism.”

“Not powerful enough to deafen a boy to their mother’s screams or, or a girl to their n-new friend’s...” He weakly blew his nose. Even that simple action was draining.

“They were alienated by the very people that society teaches us we must love and bond with. They felt wrong where they should feel most comfortable, and they ran away from their problems, unfortunately into the arms of a deranged surrogate mother...”

A look of disgust washed over Will. He tasted copper in the back of his throat, felt like his tongue was swelled as it lazed around his mouth. His uncoordinated arm hit the desk a bit too hard as he brought his legs up, eyes closing at the enormous effort it took just to move. “I’ve godda go...”

But Hannibal’s firm hands encased his shoulders, set him back down from his attempt to rise. Will inhaled deeply; his eyes rolled back at the sudden movement.

“No, no, no, Will, you’re not going anywhere-”

“They’re gonna kill their fam’lies-”

“Whatever happens to them is not your responsibility-”

“Yes id is!” He exclaimed, squirming from Hannibal’s grasp out of spite, sinking back down until he was sprawled out against the desk again.

Hannibal sighed. “You clearly cannot work in this state. Perhaps your self-induced sleep deprivation contributed to your impulsive behavior. Allow yourself to rest here, under my supervision, and we can discuss how you feel when you wake.”

“But Jack-”

“I will call him, explain you need your rest. You’ve been working yourself much too hard, and it appears to have taken a toll on your health.”

Will clawed at his conscience with as tight a grip as the lorazepam allowed, desperate to keep awake despite his body’s heaviness and his weary mind. He knew he couldn’t drive or work with the drug in his system. Much to his chagrin, Dr. Lecter was right once again.

But he would not sleep. He couldn’t. “I can’t sleep. The nightmares...”

“Yes you can, Will,” Hannibal said, extending his hand. Will reluctantly took it, but found his legs were too wobbly to support himself. With a hand to his back, Hannibal kept a tight grip on him until he dropped onto the leather chaise lounge. He carefully removed Will’s shoes before letting him lie down.

Hannibal sat on the edge and studied Will’s face, subtle notes of anxiety fighting against the sedative.

“There is no need to worry. I will be right over there at my desk. If I see you are exhibiting signs of a nightmare, I will wake you,” he said.

“Don’ leave,” Will moaned, fighting to keep him eyes open.

Hannibal smiled to himself. “I’ll be right over here, Will.” Glancing around the room, he saw the throw adorning the couch.

“Would you like a blanket?” He said softly, in case his patient had already fallen into an drug-induced slumber. The coarse texture of the fabric might bother him, so he felt it necessary to ask.

“Mmm,” he hummed, rolling onto his side clumsily, as the blanket was draped over his curled up form.

Hannibal kneeled down to Will’s level. “Don’t fight it. Allow it to wash over you. You are safe in this office, Will. Get some rest,” he said, briefly touching his shoulder.

Once Hannibal was satisfied Will had everything he needed, he walked over to his desk. He had a perfect view of a sleeping Will Graham. Hannibal got out his sketchpad and sharpened his pencil with his trusted scalpel. Later, he would write pages upon pages of observations in his unique shorthand, reveling in every word, every action that took place in his sanctum sanctorum on this serendipitous day.

But for now, he would capture the quintessence of his subject- his lax posture, chaotic curls, and the exquisite bruise peeking out from behind his bangs. As his doctor, Hannibal would certainly have to take a look at that when Will woke, watch him squirm from the breach of personal space, the self-hatred tint his eyes. Yes, Will Graham was a fascinating study, one who had much more in store for him than either man ever would have bargained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i completed something! :D Let me know how you liked it. i notice i have a strong habit of sedating Will hahaha. He's just too beautiful like that...


End file.
